~views from a permanent state between morally drunk and spiritually hungover~

miercuri, 15 august 2012

Random thoughts on writing

Writing. I’m doing it now. This is it. This is writing.

Writing is the representation of language in a textual medium through the use of a set of signs or symbols (known as a writing system). It is distinguished from illustration, such as cave drawing and painting, and the recording of language via a non-textual medium such as magnetic tape audio.

Reading is a complex cognitive process of decoding symbols for the intention of deriving meaning (reading comprehension) and/or constructing meaning.

Some say writing is painting images with words; I say painting is writing words with images.

Sitting in the back of the garden in the summer, under the cooling shadow of an old-old walnut tree; jotting down thoughts and feelings with a worn-out pencil, into a beautiful notebook a good friend once gave you as a gift. That is writing. Anything else is just scribbling.

Edgar Allan Poe wrote of horrors, Danielle Steel wrote of beauty. Poe wrote beautifully, Steel wrote horribly.

In the beginning there was the Word. And man wrote it down.

Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets. (Napoleon Bonaparte)

Writing is reading the other way around.

Upon his grave they had written his last words: “Write nothing on my grave”.

When I was about one year old I got into my father’s office at home. I spilled a bottle of ink; I smeared my hands with it, and made some imprints on a piece of paper; that was probably the best and most truthful thing I’ve ever written.

Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil and you're a thousand miles from the corn field.

(Dwight D. Eisenhower)

She was deaf so he wrote “I love you” on the sky. He could’ve written it on the cheapest piece of paper, it was what she needed to read.

Writing can be thousands of pages long, take decades to be a done, and yet comprise nothing, or it can be one letter long and take a second to be done, “I”, and comprise a person’s whole existence.

When he knew his death would come, he started writing: “This is the story of me…”

All his blood splattered onto fresh snow. There is no more compelling way of writing “pain”.

Had they not written of revolution, had the revolution not taken place.

He wrote detailed descriptions of how he would kill them, so he wouldn’t do it for real.